


An Invitation You Can't Refuse

by LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Seduction, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Tommy's regular hookup wants to hear more about this handsome best friend of his.





	An Invitation You Can't Refuse

**Author's Note:**

> Quickie chatfic, but I'm pleased with it! Thank you for cheerleading, friends! :D
> 
> Also, this was very nearly called Spanker Scratcher Tapper, but I restrained myself like a champ.

Tommy should have known that his personal secrets were always at risk with Jon Favreau around. 

It starts on a Thursday evening, late in the West Wing, and Jon coming down to Tommy’s desk and sitting on the corner of it, demanding Tommy come out drinking with him.

“I’m gonna stay in tonight,” Tommy tries, knowing it’s not going to be enough. Jon’s in one of his excitable moods, wanting all of his people around him. He gathers them all up sometimes, like he can breathe easier when everyone he loves is in one room. He takes Tommy home for holidays, sometimes; he followed his best school friend to college. He’s a people-collector. Tommy loves that about Jon, usually, but it makes him … intent, when he wants to collect and Tommy’s not in the mood to be collected.

"You haven't been out to the bars with me in ages! Are you on one of those apps instead? Because—"

"Uh, no," Tommy says. Maybe this is his angle. "I have a regular ... hookup. I guess." He coughs.

Jon shakes his head. “That’s awesome, but that’s not an excuse unless you’ll be getting laid tonight literally while everyone’s at the bar.”

Tommy’s blush probably answers that for him.

Jon relents, laughing. “Okay, nice, very nice. What's her name?"

Tommy thinks about it, glances around to make sure no one’s in range. "... Jake."

He hopes that might be enough of a tidbit to calm Jon down—the admission of the secret, the extra detail that he’s been seeing a man. That’s got to be enough to keep Jon off his scent for a while. 

“Dude,” Jon says, heartfelt. Sincerity has always suited him; he practically glows, tonight. “Congrats, man. That’s great.” Tommy figures Lovett will know within the hour, and Cody, and Mike. No, forget that—within forty seconds of Jon climbing off his desk. The President will probably know by Tuesday.

“Don’t, uh,” Tommy says, scrunching up his face. “It’s not—he’s not out, so just—no names, when you tell everyone, okay?”

Tommy sees _I’m not going to tell anyone!_ pass across Jon’s features, clear as day, before Jon gives him a rueful smile and a shrug, because they both know he’s going to tell absolutely everyone. Biden will know by next weekend. “Okay, Tommy,” Jon says, and smiles at him. “No names. Promise.” He hops off Tommy’s desk. “Next week, though, it’s bros before—uh, hookups. Yeah?”

“Deal,” Tommy says. “Go on, happy hour waits for no man.”

Jon pauses, then darts in to hug Tommy, too-tight and perfect. Tommy feels the ghost of it lingering on his body long after he’s packed up to head over to Jake’s.

***

Jon let him off the hook that Thursday, but it’s not the last time he pushes, not by a long shot. Now, every time Tommy doesn’t want to go out, it’s “is it because you’re meeting Jake?”

Tommy hisses, “Keep your voice down, Favreau,” but sometimes, if they’re alone at Jon’s apartment or Tommy’s house, he lets himself brag a little: “Yeah. He texted.” And once, when he’s too drunk for a work night, “He just—he gives it to me _so_ good. Like—it’s never been this good.” 

He knew he shouldn’t have; he’s proven right when Jon draws back, looking peeved. At Tommy’s TMI, undoubtedly. “Great,” Jon had said, kind of distant. “I’ll get you some water.”

Tommy tells Jake about it, that Friday, embarrassed. 

“I didn’t—he doesn’t know who you are, or anything. Just, like, a guy I’ve been hooking up with.”

Jake runs a hand through Tommy’s hair. “Hooking up, is that the latest terminology? In my day, it was called heavy petting.” Tommy laughs. “So this friend, tell me about him.”

“You’d like him,” Tommy says. He laughs again. “You should take up with him when you’re tired of me, he’s way hotter. Totally gorgeous.” He’s joking, obviously—well, not about Jon being hot—but he likes, now and again, to remind Jake that he understands this isn’t monogamous, or forever. That he’s fine with it. He’s definitely mostly fine with it. 

Jake’s never satisfied with a joke answer, is the thing. He likes to laugh, but he likes to get the truth more. “Tell me why you trust him with your secrets.”

Tommy doesn’t have to think about that. “Jon’s my best friend. We’ve worked together since the Kerry campaign, just him and me in the trenches. We shared a cubicle in Chicago. I miss those days, you know? I mean, I love this, it’s the White House, there’s nothing else like it, but now we work in totally different parts of the building, and we’re both so slammed we never get to hang out, and it’s just,” and he shrugs, lost for words. “Anyway, you’d like him. You’ve probably met him, actually, he’s—”

“Chief speechwriter,” Jake inserts. Tommy supposes he dropped enough details for a White House correspondent to figure it out. “Favreau. I’ve met him. Unfortunate haircut, but he does have that look about him, doesn’t he?” Jake doesn’t let Tommy answer; his hands have been wandering while Tommy talks, and one now finds its way over Tommy’s mouth. Tommy swallows, anticipating.

“Go wait for me,” Jake tells him, rising from the couch. Tommy scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself to get into Jake’s bedroom and start stripping, folding his clothes neatly on a chair the way Jake expects.

He’s still folding when Jake comes in; Jake comes up behind him and strokes down his sides, his thighs, breathes in deep at the back of his neck. 

"So you think I'm going to take up with Favreau instead of you—"

"I don't really, I mean, that was just a joke," Tommy interrupts. Jake does not like to be interrupted. Jake looks at him for a long moment, until Tommy mimes zipping his lips.

"You should tell me more about him." Jake puts his hand on the back of Tommy's neck and pushes until Tommy drops to his knees on Jake's plush carpet. Jake's such an _adult_ , God. Tommy's bedroom just has a ratty rug that started out as a dorm-room purchase, years ago. "Tell me what you think your friend Jon would do for me."

"Oh, I don't—um—I don't think he's into ... this," Tommy says, glancing up. "It was really just a joke because he's so, you know, handsome."

"Mm-hm," Jake says. "I think you mentioned how handsome he is once or twice. Handsome's only what it is. Tell me what he'd do.”

Tommy thinks, _it's only fantasy, there's no harm in it_ , knows it isn't quite true, and starts talking anyway, because Jake's hand is warm on his neck and because ... because it's hot, too.

"He'd—I don't think he's ever given a blowjob but he's, uh, he's game to try things. He likes to be good at things, he'd probably want to be good at that for you."

"At what?" Jake prompts. 

"At—sucking your cock. Sir." Tommy knows Jake likes the title, but not as much as Tommy likes to say it, so he tries to mete them out, make himself wait. 

Jake likes it today, though. He threads his fingers through Tommy's hair and pulls Tommy's head back, so Tommy's looking backwards up at him. "That's a good start," he says. "Go get on the bed before you tell me the rest."

*** 

Jon snags Tommy on his way out of the office on Friday. "Hey, man. You're busy tonight, right?"

"Uh—yeah," Tommy says. Jake rarely sees him twice in one week, but when he texts, Tommy drops everything. It's maybe a little pathetic, but Tommy's prepared to be a little pathetic for Jake. 

"Is—" Jon looks around, then pulls Tommy into Cody and Lovett's empty office, shuts the door. "Tommy, is your Jake—Tapper? From ABC?"

Tommy doesn't know what to do with his face. Or his hands. Or his heart rate, which is sailing up toward hummingbird speeds. "No—"

"Tommy," Jon says, and Tommy feels himself giving it away, cringing. "Jesus, Tommy, I'm not—gimme a second, I'm not gonna rat you out, you know I'm Team Vietor all the way."

Tommy tips his head back and sighs, then refocuses on Jon. "How'd you figure it out?" He needs to be so fucking much more discreet.

"I ... didn't. He texted me and invited me over tonight. Unless I'm being punked, but—" He pulls out his phone to show Tommy the text, the number. The address. 

Tommy would know just from the diction of the message: commanding, clear, sparse. "I think he's just, ah—don't worry about it," he says. "I'll tell him to leave you alone."

Jon shrugs. "Nah, let's—like, I want to meet the guy you're banging. I mean, I've met him, but you know what I mean. Scope him out, see if he's good enough for you. I'll clear out after dinner so you can have your—uh—privacy."

Tommy needs to cut this off. He needs to—

His phone is buzzing, not his work-assigned Blackberry but his own shitty Nokia. _Invited your friend Jon over for dinner,_ Jake's sent, precise and carefully formatted as ever. _Think we'll have a nice evening._

Tommy's palms are sweating. "Yeah," he says, instead of whatever he should say. "Sure, let's—I'll drive."

Jake's apartment wowed Tommy when he first saw it. TV money, he supposes, but also—taste, and living long enough to collect art and furniture that didn't come from Ikea. Jon compliments the place as soon as they walk in, which is the right way to go with Jake.

"Thanks, son," Jake says, and Tommy's glad he's behind Jon, where the way his eyes fly open won't reveal anything. To Jon, it's just a thing people say, it's just—meaningless. Tommy's the one who's being weird right now.

Well—Jake's being weird, too, but at least it's subtle.

Jake's ordered food, fancy Lebanese stuff, and set it out on nice plates with nice silverware. Tommy's eaten at this table before, but usually not while sitting in a chair.

"Tommy tells me you're quite a go-getter," Jake says, settling his napkin on his lap and focusing his attention on Jon. "He says you like to be good at things."

Jon grins. "Tommy's always complimentary," he says, and then, "Well—no, sometimes he's a dick, but only to people who deserve it."

"Mostly only," Tommy corrects. He can see the way Jon's reacting to Jake's attention, the way everyone does, the way Tommy does. It's heady and seductive to have Jake listening to you and trying to suss out your secrets. 

"We'll take it as a given that Tommy's generous to his friends," Jake says, with just the hint of a smirk. "Still, he has good judgment, don't you think?"

Jon nods, takes another bite of his shawarma. Jake waits him out. "I guess I'm—I don't know if I like to be good at things. Doesn't everyone like that? I suppose I like—appreciation, recognition—"

"Praise," Jake inserts, smoothly, like Jon had planned to say it all along, and Jon shrugs, nods.

"Sure."

"Tommy likes praise," Jake says, "but only if he really has to earn it. Don't you think?"

Jon glances at him, smiling. "Yeah. Tommy likes to be put through the wringer, I swear. It doesn't count as a win unless you sweat."

"But you'll take easy wins," Jake suggests, and Jon shrugs again.

"They can't all be easy, so you might as well enjoy the ones that are."

Jon, Tommy realizes, thinks they're talking about elections. Jesus fuck.

"Tommy, can you bring us some whisky? Jon, you like whisky?"

Jon likes shitty vodka and shitty beer and, weirdly, peach schnapps. Tommy doesn't say anything. "Sure," Jon says, easy. "What's not to like?"

Tommy pours heavy, because he knows Jake will send him back to fix it if he doesn't, and he doesn't know how Jon will take that. If Jon will think Tommy's—not-boyfriend—is treating him badly. He doesn't let his hands shake as he sets them down, either. 

"I've been teaching Tommy about whisky," Jake says, which is sort of true, in that sometimes he drips it in Tommy's mouth, and sometimes he sets his glass on Tommy's back instead of the table, and mostly he does this, makes Tommy serve him.

"Tommy does like to learn new things," Jon says. He's getting the hang of what Jake wants out of this conversation, Tommy thinks. Jake has a way of leading conversations without anyone quite noticing he's doing it. "He taught himself to play guitar, you know."

"Mm," Jake agrees. "Taught himself to give blowjobs, too."

Jake's an adult with a nice house; he timed it so no one had whisky in their mouth. Jon just blinks for a moment, and then Jake says, "And a bit of French."

"Uh—yeah," Jon says. He takes a too-big sip of whisky, and then another. Tommy's is still just sitting on the table; he's too nervous about what Jake's trying to do.

Jake switches topics, smoothly, to basketball and then to tort reform and then to movies. Tommy manages to get comfortable enough to contribute a few things, but mostly he's content to listen to them. 

By the time Jake starts circling back around, Jon's gone easy in his chair, not drunk but definitely relaxed. "Tommy tells me you're the type to try anything," Jake says, swirling the sip that's left in his glass and then pouring it back.

"Sure," Jon says. "Don't say skydiving, though. I hate planes. Campaign was a nightmare for that."

"Mm," Jake acknowledges. "I wasn't going to mention planes. I was thinking more of sex."

"Oh," Jon says, and laughs. "I mean, I guess I've tried a fair few things. Nothing crazy."

"And what's 'crazy', do you think?" 

Tommy sometimes think Jake has that vampire thing—thrall. He can enthrall. Jon looks enthralled now, like he can't imagine not answering these questions. "I don't know—what's the joke? Kinky is when you use the whole chicken? Definitely no chickens. Feathers are good."

Jake smiles. He looks a little bit like a shark. Tommy wishes he didn't find that as hot as he does. "I think they told that joke when I was a teenager," he says. "But it's not quite right, is it? Lots of things are kinky that aren't appalling. I bet you've done some."

Jon laughs. "I guess. I don't know—this girl in college liked me to spank her with her hairbrush. That's probably the most."

"Not with your hand?"

"Oh, that, too, but that's less—I mean, everyone does that." Jon's gone a little pink. Jake must notice it, too, because he's honing in. 

He leans in, just a touch. "Everyone—maybe. Does that mean you've tried it?"

"I just said—"

Jake shakes his head, impatient now. "Have you tried it?"

Jon doesn't pretend not to get it, this time. "I—there was a girl in Chicago," he says. He doesn't wait for Jake to ask the obvious follow-up. "It was, uh, it was good. Hot."

"What did you like about it?" Jake asks. "The role reversal? The sensation? Or the feeling afterward, when the endorphins were flowing?"

Jon's hand drops off the table for a moment, and Tommy knows, _knows_ , that he's adjusting himself, trying to be subtle about it. He knows Jake won't have missed it, either. "The—" He stops, blinking, turns away from Jake's gaze to find Tommy's. "Sorry, I'm—we're dominating the conversation, here, we should—how was your, um, day?"

Tommy glances at Jake. Jake's face says, as clearly as it can, _it's up to you_.

"No, I was enjoying the discussion," Tommy says, softly. "You didn't say which part you liked." He stops, swallows. "I like the—vulnerability of it. And giving up control."

Jon just stares at him for a long, terrifying moment, and then says, "I liked how much she liked it."

"Mm." Jake sets his glass down. "Tommy likes that part, too. I'm not easy to please. He likes to get it right." He reaches out; Tommy can see enough to be almost certain he's put a hand on Jon's thigh. "You'd want the easier path. Be good, get rewarded. By Tommy's mouth on your cock, for instance."

Tommy thinks, _now Jon's going to bolt_ , braces himself for it, for how it's going to feel. 

Jon looks down at the hand in his lap, and back up at Jake. "If that's okay with Tommy," he says, carefully, not looking over at Tommy.

"Suppose I say, it is if I say it is?" Jake asks. His hand is still on Jon's thigh. Tommy wants to know if he's squeezing, if his thumb is rubbing the sensitive skin through Jon's work slacks. 

Jon glances at Tommy, then. Tommy shoots him a rueful smile, says, "It is if he says it is," and then, quickly, "But—it is."

"Slightly stepping on my point, there, Tommy," Jake says, but it's not much of a rebuke. He's focused elsewhere, on this seduction of Jon. "I think that's settled, then." He stands up. "Come to the living room."

Tommy's still waiting for Jon to bolt, to object, to shake himself out of it, but he gets up, instead, and follows Jake through. Tommy stays a moment longer, looks at his untouched two fingers of whisky, and then drains it. 

Jesus. Jake never ceases to find Tommy's pressure points.

When Tommy steps into the living room, Jake's touching Jon. Jake's _touching_ Jon, one hand on his cock through his pants, one tight on the back of his neck. And Jon looks—enraptured, still. 

Tommy has a split-second to think _I've wasted so much time thinking Jon's straight as an arrow_ before Jake calls him over. "By the chair," he says, and Tommy goes to his knees next to it. He feels Jon's eyes tracking him, even without looking up to see it. 

"Tommy's learned to be very good for me," Jake tells Jon. "I like to make him wait, though. Make him sweat for it, as you said."

Jon's breathing so loudly it's filling the room. "I think I've made you a promise," Jake says. "About what you get if you're good for me, as well."

"Ye-yeah," Jon says, voice shaky. 

Tommy's never wanted anything as much as he wants, right now, for Jon to be good enough for Jake to reward him.

"Suppose I make it easy on you," Jake says. "You like things to be easy. All you have to do is take a spanking and not come."

Tommy glances up in time to see Jon looking incredulously self-satisfied. The _that's stupidly easy_ is as clear as day on his face. 

Jon has no fucking idea what he's in for. 

"So we have a plan," Jake says. "Take your clothes off and bend over the arm of the couch. I'll be back in a moment."

Jon pauses, hesitant, when Jake leaves. He finds Tommy's face, bites his lip as he meets Tommy's eyes. "This is—um—"

"Hot," Tommy says, and Jon blows out a breath. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it—"

Tommy cuts him off. "You're supposed to be—"

"Yeah. Yes. Right." Jon swallows, peels his shirt off and tosses it to the side. Tommy winces, but supposes Jon doesn't have to follow the house rules. Probably. Jon's already got his socks off before Tommy finishes worrying about it, and then his hands are pausing on his waistband. He glances at the doorway. "Right," he says again, mostly to himself, and then strips out of his slacks and his briefs, belt clanking when he tosses them all to the side.

Maybe Jake was listening; maybe he just knows his timing. He comes back in almost the moment Jon's starting to curl, tentative, over the arm of the couch. "All the way," he says, and Jon startles. "Face in the cushion. Tommy, pick up those clothes and fold them."

Tommy scrambles to his feet and starts gathering Jon's clothes; he doesn't want to miss watching this. He folds Jon's shirt carefully on the coffee table, facing Jake and Jon, watching Jake run a hand down Jon's back. 

"I promised you easy," Jake says, mildly. "I should perhaps clarify that your definition and mine might be somewhat different."

He starts, then, palm on Jon's ass. Tommy knows from beautiful, glorious experience that Jake knows just where to hit to arouse: low, and inside, until you're shivering from it. On the thighs, a bit, and the crease under Jon's ass, and as close to Jon's hole as he can get without making Jon hold himself open the way he makes Tommy.

Tommy finishes folding, and goes back to the chair. His view here is—well. He can see why Jake put him here. It's obscene. He's close, directly behind Jon, with an unobstructed view of Jon's ass between blows. 

He thinks about Jon wanting his mouth as a reward—or at least accepting it as a reward—and has to close his eyes for a moment and just listen. _Jesus_. 

Jon probably thinks, however good this feels, that he's safe, that this is easy. Jon has no idea.

He's about to learn. Jake slows to a stop, and reaches for the side table, where he's stashed the things he brought in from the kitchen. Ice, Tommy can see from here, and a boar-bristle hairbrush, and a soft chamois cloth. Forget Jon; Tommy wants to come just looking at those options.

Jake starts with the hairbrush; Tommy could have predicted that. He runs the harsh bristles over the pinked-up skin of Jon's ass, and Jon gasps, back arching. He doesn't ask what it is; maybe he knows, from that girl in college, or maybe he doesn't care. Either way, he likes it, intensely, the way Tommy does. 

It's—trippy isn't quite the word, but Tommy's head is spinning, from the whisky and the whole evening. It's something, though, to see that Jon likes this, too, that Jon likes the pain and the overstimulation of it. 

Jake reaches for the ice with his free hand and surprises Jon with it, freezing cold where he's scratched and spanked and burning. "Ah, fuck," Jon says, and Tommy wishes he could see Jon's face, because he's sure the realization is rising on it that this won't be easy at all.

Jake puts them both back in the box, and goes back to spanking. This time, he's using both hands—one mostly spanking, and one mostly scratching, but mixing it up from time to time like a jazz musician. Jake doesn't play an instrument, but Tommy thinks, sometimes, that this is his art; this is the craft he's practiced until he doesn't have to think about it anymore. Until he can make a kiddy piano sound like a Steinway. 

Jon isn't a kiddy piano to begin with, in Tommy's opinion, so he sounds—he sounds like a fucking sonata, gasping and whining and just on the verge of starting to beg.

Tommy wants to beg on his behalf. Whatever the fuck is happening this evening, he's grateful, overwhelmingly grateful, that Jake made it happen. He hasn't let himself think about Jon like this, not since the early days, but now Jon's bare thighs are in front of him, begging to be touched, and Tommy _wants_. He can't pretend he doesn't.

Jake pauses again, pulls out the chamois cloth and lets it brush, dangling, against Jon. "You'll have to decide how much you want your reward," Jake says, and Tommy realizes how long it's been since he spoke. Usually, with him, Jake doesn't go quiet. Tommy needs—Tommy needs the patter, he supposes. Maybe Jake doesn't think Jon needs that. 

"I—want it," Jon gasps.

"Mm," Jake says, and strokes the soft cloth over him with the tip of a finger. "But you think it's not a big deal if you fail, because now this is all out in the open, you can fuck Tommy another time, don't you?"

Jon's quiet. Tommy's heart stops. "That's true," Jake says. "You can. He's never said it, but he wants you. He's easy to read, isn't he? When he's not keeping national secrets. He doesn't hide his own as well."

Tommy wants to get up, to stop Jake, to deny it. He also wants—none of that.

"He wants you as much as you want him," Jake says. "So put that aside for right now. Are you going to impress me, or are you going to disappoint me?"

Jon's hand fists on the edge of the couch, where Tommy can just see it. "I-impress," he gasps.

"Good boy," Jake says, and Tommy wonders if it jolts through Jon the way it does through Tommy. He wonders—he wonders too many things to contain, right now. He can't think about any of that, about _as much as you want him_. "One more round. Impress me, son."

Jon must get it, this time; he groans, arches back towards Jake's touch. Jake spanks him once just for that, hard.

Jake isn't fucking around, this time. Not that he ever does, really, but he's whaling on Jon, trusting to the warm-up, to Jon's arousal. He's focused. His spare hand, scratching mostly, finds its way up the insides of Jon's thighs, wrist brushing the most sensitive areas he can find. He's not pulling his punches; he never does. 

Tommy takes deep breaths, and tries as hard as he can to focus on this, here, now, and not the million scenarios his brain wants to spin out about—about Jon, wanting him. _Wanting_ him. 

Jake grabs for the brush, and Tommy sees him fumble it. Jake never fumbles anything. 

Tommy looks up at his face, finds him—focused, but not fully. Pleased, but not fully. 

Jake's giving him away, Tommy realizes. Jake's giving him to Jon, or Jon to him, or both, but—away.

He reaches forward and puts a hand on Jake's thigh. He doesn't want to throw him off his plan, but he does want to say—something. A thank you, maybe. 

Jake slows, pulling the brush and the melting ice out again, but it's clear Jon's managed it, at this point. He's groaning and writhing and needy, but he's holding off. 

"Can I?" Tommy asks, quietly. "Sir?"

Jake takes a deep breath, sets his tools down. Steps back from Jon. "Yeah, baby. Go to town."

Tommy doesn't push it; it's still Jake's house, and Jake's rules. He crawls over on his knees toward the couch, puts a hand on Jon's jaw. "You want to stand, or—"

Jon stands. Sitting would be—well, Tommy would like it, the burn and the ache, but he gets why Jon might not. He stands on shaky legs, braces himself at thigh-level on the arm of the couch. 

He's looking down at Tommy, and Tommy looks up at him, feeling—connected. Seen. "Hi," Jon says, softly. "You, um. You don't have to—"

"Jon," Tommy interrupts. Jon doesn't mind it so much, being interrupted. 

Jon swallows, and nods, and Tommy leans in and sucks his cock down as far as he can go.

Now that Tommy's letting himself think about this, he can admit he's dreamed of this, wanted it. Thought about how it would feel and taste and how Jon would sound, how much he could make Jon want it. 

The reality is so much fucking better.

Jon's hand—a hand—Jon's hand comes down into Tommy's hair, stroking his skin. It's gentle; Tommy wants the pull, but he likes this, likes feeling ... caressed. Treasured, maybe. Likes the way Jon's holding him gently, even if he aches for harshness, too. 

It reminds him, abruptly, that Jake's still here, that they're still at his apartment, that this isn't some strange dream between him and Jon. He glances over to see Jake in the chair Tommy was kneeling by. He's jerking off; he doesn't seem too upset. Tommy would smile, if he didn't have better things to do with his mouth.

Jon, above him, is groaning and gasping and _wanting_ , everything Tommy could have asked for. It's impossible to think about Jake in the face of that. "God, Tommy," Jon murmurs, and Tommy reaches around behind him and scratches the swollen skin of his ass until Jon's breathing too hard to talk. 

He wants Jon to come. He wants Jon to never come. He wants Jon to come, and drive him home in Tommy's car, and stay over in Tommy's bed, and fucking—marry him and have his fucking babies and grow old with him. 

Tommy's a wreck, maybe, but he's at least a wreck with Jon Favreau's cock in his mouth. Finally.

When Jon comes, it's gentler than Tommy would have guessed, easier. It's a sucked-in breath and a silence and the shake of his thighs, and the soft pulse of warmth into Tommy's mouth. It's Jake, over his shoulder, making a soft, appreciative noise.

Tommy swallows, and swallows, and wipes the rest off his chin with the back of his hand, and looks up to see if Jon—if Jon will be filled with post-orgasmic regret, or horror, or confusion. 

"Hi," Jon says, looking down at him. His face is nothing but affection and pleasure.

"Hi," Tommy says back.

"A well-executed reward," Jake says, and Tommy almost startles, remembering him. "I have an early morning, so if you two could get on the road—"

"Sorry," Tommy says, and tries to put everything into it. His gratitude, his fondness.

Jake waves it off. "Anytime," he says. "Call a cab if you're not safe to drive."

***

They go to Jon's apartment, not Tommy's house and its many denizens. They don't talk about it. They don't talk in the cab, but Jon holds Tommy's hand, fingers threaded through Tommy's, hands on Tommy's thigh. 

Jon's apartment doesn't have a dining room, or a full bar, or cushy carpet. It has white, bare walls and the occasional poster frame of a Shepard Fairey print. 

It has a good bed, though, and Jon lays Tommy across it and crawls up over him. "This is—crazy," Jon tells Tommy's collarbone. "Tommy, I—"

"Me too," Tommy says, kissing Jon's forehead, his hair, anything he can reach. "I do, too."

"Okay," Jon says, voice shaky. "As long as you do, too."

They have to be at work in the morning; they have to be at their best in the morning. But they have now. They have this: Jon, wanting to be good at something. Wanting to get Tommy off. Wanting to be here.

"Tell me—tell me if I don't make you sweat enough," Jon says, before he goes quiet, mouth otherwise occupied.

Tommy sweats enough. Tommy can stand to learn from Jon, he thinks, about accepting the things that come easily. He'll take this win.


End file.
